


you were born with a wanderer's soul (this is how you begin to be whole)

by petitegaynerd (embuffalo)



Category: Carol (2015), The Bridges of Madison County - All Media Types, The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Extramarital Affairs, F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-17 17:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17565212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embuffalo/pseuds/petitegaynerd
Summary: Carol Aird is restless and unsatisfied with her humdrum life in Iowa. When her husband Harge and her daughter Rindy are away for four days, leaving her alone amidst the cornfields, a visiting photographer named Therese Belivet sweeps her off her feet in a forbidden, whirlwind affair. (It's a Bridges of Madison County AU.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue. Rindy begins to uncover the secrets of her mother's past.

Rindy Thompson (neé Aird) sank into a seat at her parents’ kitchen table, setting a heavy wooden box down atop the gingham tablecloth. Rindy’s mother had passed away not two days prior, and already the farmhouse felt unbearably stifling without her mother’s presence.

Rindy hadn’t been home since the previous holiday season when the house had been bundled up in thick snow banks and filled with the scent of cookies baking in the oven. Now, the thick summer air barely lifted the curtains. It was far hotter here than in New Jersey, where Rindy’s husband Jeff had stayed behind to watch over their two young children. The rest of her family was supposed to fly out for the funeral, once the details had been arranged--although, to Rindy’s bewilderment, her mother had left behind instructions to have her ashes thrown over the Roseman Bridge instead of a traditional ceremony.

Her mother had never mentioned the bridge before, and Rindy was searching for some explanation among her parents’ things. The day before, when Rindy had signed for the rights to her mother’s bank account and safety deposit box, the lawyer had given her a small brass key with the pile of papers. Rindy had spent most of the morning testing the key around the house and had finally found a match in the small oak chest tucked beneath the pedal of her mother’s sewing machine in the stuffy attic. Inside she had found a jumble of trinkets: old magazines, dried flowers, and rolls of film piled on top of a pair of leather-bound journals.

At the table, with a glass of iced tea in hand, Rindy flipped through one of the magazines. It was a _National Geographic_  that featured the covered bridges by which Rindy had grown up, the story accompanied by a profile on the photographer. Rindy brushed a thumb over the black-and-white photograph of the artist, the woman’s sharp gaze and serious expression framed by a dark bob and firm jaw.

As Rindy turned the weathered page, an envelope fluttered from the pages of the magazine, her name written on it in her mother’s neatly looping script. Tossing the magazine aside, Rindy slid a finger beneath the flap of the envelope and began to read, hearing the words in her mother’s voice.

_January 1987_

_My dearest Nerinda,_

_First let me say that I love you very much, and I hope my passing has not been too hard on you and your family. Although I still feel well as I am writing this, times have not been as easy of late and it seems like it is time for me to put my affairs -- pardon the word -- in order._

_I am sorry I never found the courage to tell you this sooner, and I wish there was some way I could still be there to explain it to you better, but I have yet to think of a way. It's hard to write this to my own daughter. I know I could let this die with the rest of me, I suppose. But as one gets older, one's fears subside. What becomes more and more important is to be known -- known for all that you were during this brief stay -- including the bad and the ugly. And times are changing, Rindy. So slowly, but they are changing, and I hope you will understand why that matters to me. It seems to me odd to leave this earth without those you love the most ever really knowing who you were. I really am sorry for all the times I left you alone. In the end, though, I wanted to give you a chance to try to understand all that what happened to me._

_Her name was Therese Belivet. That name still gives me goosebumps, do you know? She was a photographer who came here in 1965 to shoot an article for National Geographic on the covered bridges of Madison County. Remember when we got that issue and looked at those bridges we'd seen for years but never noticed? How we felt like celebrities? That’s how I felt in every moment I spent with Therese._

_I don't want you to be angry with her. I hope after you know the whole story, you might even think well of her. It's all there in the notebooks. If you don't want to read them, I suppose that's okay too. But in that case I want you to know something -- I never stopped loving your father. He was a very good man. It's just that my love for Therese was different. She brought out something in me no one had ever brought out before, or since then. She made me feel like a woman in a way that I believe few women ever experience..._

_I suppose that I had been prepared for her coming into my life was, in many ways, for weeks, months and maybe even years before. Do you remember Aunt Abby? I know she only came to visit us once when you were little, so you might not. I knew her since girlhood and we were lovers, too, once upon a time, although we didn’t call it that then. She prepared me for Therese as well, whether she knew it or not._

_Regardless, there was a restlessness I was feeling when Therese arrived, out of the blue and for no apparent reason. There's nothing more frightening to a woman who had been settled down for almost twenty years than to suddenly feel unsettled. I don't know when it started but I do remember one night in particular, just before Therese arrived, and that is where these journals start._

_I love you very much, my darling Rindy. I truly hope to bring some peace to your life in the form of answers rather than questions._

_Much love from_

_Your mother Carol_

Rindy set the letter aside and reached for the first journal, heart thudding in her chest. Undoing the clasp, she opened it and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this for a little while now, and I wanted to get something posted so that I have a reason to keep working on it. The bare-bones version of this story is done, loosely based on an old script of the movie, and I hope to keep this story updated with some attempt at a timely schedule.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments below or over on tumblr @petitegaynerd! As always, thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for the lovely response on the first chapter! I hope you all enjoy this one as well.

It is a hot August night in 1965. The windows, save one, are flung wide open in hopes of a slight breeze. A large air conditioning unit thrums steadily in the remaining window. Carol Aird is sitting up in bed, wearing a thin cotton nightgown. A book rests on her knees as she thumbs the pages. Her husband, Harge, lies next to her, the sheets pushed down around his feet. Harge is fast asleep, his chest gently rising and falling, tired from a day of work outside. Carol, on the other hand, cannot convince her mind to rest. Her day has been busy, too, filled with the usual chores--cooking, cleaning, and helping Harge with the farm work--and yet her mind still wanders.

With a sigh, she sets the book aside and tries to sleep, pulling the sheet up close to her waist. She closes her eyes for one moment, two, before opening them wide again. It’s no use. Harge’s heat next to her is too strong, even with the air conditioning on. She tosses the sheets aside, swinging her legs to the ground.

Harge stirs. “What time is it?” he mumbles.

“It’s late. Go back to sleep,” she says, barely above a whisper. She pads barefoot towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

Carol pauses in the doorway, resting a hand on the worn wood. “I’m not tired,” she says. “I thought I might finish the skirt I’ve been making for Rindy.”

“Now?” Harge asks. He props himself up on his elbows enough to look at the clock. “It’s nearly twelve, Carol.”

She shrugs a little. “I can’t sleep.”

“Again?” Harge’s brow furrows, even as his head drops back onto the pillow. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”

Carol sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not sick, Harge. I’m just not tired. Go back to sleep. There’s no use having both of us up the whole night.”

Harge grumbles sleepily and turns over. A shadow passes over Carol’s face for a moment, but she relaxes once Harge’s snores begin again, thankful that at least one of them is content enough to sleep. 

***

The thrum of her sewing machine is almost comforting in the stillness of the night, keeping her hands busy even as her mind drifts elsewhere. Carol loses herself in the work until the machine stops with an abrupt click: the bobbin of thread has run out and the post it stands on has snapped back to position.

Carol sighs, pushing back her chair. The original spool of thread is nowhere to be found on her work table. She heads back among the boxes in the attic, searching for the shelves where spare scraps of fabric, old clothes, and knitting needles are stored for future use. Other clutter has collected on her shelves: a dirty Raggedy Ann, Harge’s worn Sunday shoes, last year’s schoolbooks. Carol pushes aside a box of canning jars to look for her box of thread. Suddenly, the jars are rattling and Carol barely catches the box before it tumbles out of control.

“Shit!” she cries, in a voice too loud for after midnight. 

“Damn it,” she mutters more softly to herself, sinking to the floor with the crate in her lap. The noise of the jars has shaken her. Feeling nervous in her own house, Carol shivers in the dust. It does not matter if she spends these hours asleep or awake, she thinks. She is always waiting for something to happen. It’s time for her to do something for herself. Brushing the dust off her skirt, she stands and assesses the mess around her.

Some hours later, the attic is almost worse than it was before. Although one set of shelves is now organized, the boards bearing neat labels in Carol’s looping script, there are two large, messy piles on the ground. One is made up of useful things: the canning jars, some old books, a sturdy electric fan. The other contains mostly junk; broken toys and a dusty lampshade sit on a stack of yellowed newspapers.

Carol is rummaging through yet another box, half full of baby clothes and her maternity dresses, when she touches worn leather. She pulls a small handbag--a teenager’s purse, really, for a girl pretending to be grown up--from the bottom of the bin. She runs a hand over the front flap. Lifting it up, she digs her fingers into the crevices of the purse, seeking out some small remembrance of days gone by.

She finds a dark peach lipstick inside a zippered pocket alongside a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Carol examines the lipstick for a moment, trying to remember its origin. Seeing the Italian label, she smiles. “Abby,” she says softly.

Pushing deeper into the purse, Carol finds a small photograph. Although the image is grainy and a little blurred, its subjects are vividly captured on the tacky paper. It is Carol herself, barely more than a teenager, with her arm around the waist of a mischievous brunette. Their faces are close together, noses nearly touching. A sudden rush of dizziness overcomes Carol and she leans against the shelves for a moment, remembering.

***

_ Italy. Twenty years ago.  _

_ It is summer. Carol, her hair practically glowing in the dazzling Italian sunlight, stalks through the tall grasses of an open field, her dress snagging on the occasion thistle. _

_ Abby, her brown hair tucked up under a straw hat, pursues Carol doggedly. _

_ “Carol, where the hell are you going?” Abby’s voice is loud and indignant, urging Carol to stop and face her like an adult. Despite being a year younger than Carol, Abby was wiser than her years and knew it. “Do you really expect me to follow -- to run after you like some schoolgirl with a crush? Forget it, Carol!”  _

_ Abby is close to reaching out and slapping Carol but halts herself with a deep breath, staying firmly planted where she is, refusing to follow Carol any further. _

_ A moment later, Carol stops too, caught off-guard by Abby’s silence. She turns around, eyes blazing, and stalks back towards her friend. “So that’s it? Are you just going to leave me here? You’re going to give up?” _

_ “ _ I’m  _ the one giving up? That’s rich, Carol. Your parents said to stay away from me and you said okay. What am I supposed to do?” _

_ “Fight for me! For us!” Carol cries. Her voice cracks, her shoulders slump, and Abby pulls her into her arms reflexively. Abby smells like clean sweat and sunshine; there is a hint of lemongrass on her skin.  _

_ After a moment, Abby steadily holds her by her shoulders, keeping her just far enough away that Carol can’t escape her gaze. _

_ “You and I both know that’s not going to happen,” Abby says, gentler now but still matter-of-fact. “Not until you are absolutely ready to commit. You don’t know what you want and I can’t make up your mind for you. But either you are in this for the long run or we are through. If you come with me, there will be no easy out, but I’m not forcing you to go. This is your decision to make, not mine, because I’ve already made  _ my  _ decision. I can’t keep playing these games because I will end up in more trouble. You know that as well as I do.” _

_ Carol nods silently, crossing her arms across her chest. She does know what Abby is saying, but that doesn’t make it any easier to make a choice for the rest of her life. _

***

The soft light of dawn is spreading across the fields of the Airds’ homestead. Carol stands over the kitchen sink, wrapped in a bathrobe, watching the sun rise through the window. She shivers a little. The dewy field reminds her of Abby, and for a moment she feels as if Abby might appear at any moment. Carol slips out onto the porch with a mug of coffee in her hand, half-hopeful that Abby will, in fact, come walking up the dirt driveway, all tan arms and cuffed trousers, her cheeky grin appearing from beneath an outrageous hat.

After Abby had delivered her ultimatum, Carol had pulled Abby to her, only able to answer by kissing her and pulling her down onto the warm grass, knowing it would be their last time together, her hands and Abby’s soft mouth pulling her away from all of her thoughts. Now all Carol can remember is the feelings from that day: the smooth skin between Abby’s breasts, the roughness of her trousers as Carol fumbled a hand inside, Abby’s gentle kisses hotter than the sunlight on Carol’s skin.

“Carol, how fresh is the coffee?” Harge stands in the doorway, dressed in his second-best shirt and with his hair wet from combing.

Startled from her memory, Carol turns, clutching her robe tighter against her sternum. “Should still be hot,” she says, smiling tiredly. With a final glance at the dewy grass, she follows him inside and starts breakfast, going upstairs to change into work clothes while the skillet heats up. 

After they share plates of bacon and eggs, Harge loads his and Rindy’s suitcases into the back of the truck. Rindy’s prize steer, Patrick, stamps his feet in the trailer hitched to the back. Carol kisses her daughter’s cheek and wishes her luck, smoothing out the ribbons on her daughter’s neat braids. Rindy, nearly bouncing with excitement, hugs her mother tightly before she eagerly opens the passenger door of their green pickup.

Harge kisses Carol, his hands steady on her waist. “We’ll be home before you know it. Take care, darlin’. I love you.”

“Be safe,” Carol replies with a faint smile, reaching up to tug and smooth the collar of his shirt.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Harge asks. “It wouldn’t take you long to pack.”

“I’m positive,” Carol assures him. “It’s only four days. You’ll be back before you know it, and I’ll manage without you two till then.”

He kisses her once more before heading for the driver’s side of the truck, keying the ignition until the truck rumbles to life. Rindy waves out the rear window until her mother is no more than a pale figure behind her. 

When Harge’s tail lights are naught but a glimmer in the distance, Carol lets out a breath with the fresh morning sunlight sinking into her skin, still thinking of Abby as the farm begins to come alive again. 

The morning goes by quickly. Carol stays busy, weeding the garden, feeding their small flock of chickens, and cleaning the house. The sun is hot and high in the sky when Carol sits back on her heels to rest, draping the rag she has been using to scrub the kitchen floor over the edge of the bucket. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand and smiles to herself, feeling girlish and giddy despite the ache in her hands.

Carol rises and stretches, working a kink from her back. There is something refreshing about cleaning the house for herself and herself alone, knowing that it will remain unmarred by Rindy’s magazines strewn on the living room floor or Harge’s footprints tracking in muck from the farm.

Retying her ponytail, she fetches her purse from the kitchen counter and drives into Winterset for lunch, waving at neighbors as she drives down the main street. She finds a group of other mothers at the local diner, gossiping over pieces of pie, and Carol fades in among them, sipping a cup of coffee with her meal.

After lunch, Carol moves on to laundry and hangs her sheets up to dry. With the strong Iowa sunshine bleaching her linens, she brings out the rugs that line her home to beat the dust from them. When sweat drips down her forehead and no more particles fly from the rugs with each swing of the stick, Carol takes a breather, retreating to the shade of the porch with a glass of iced tea in her hand.

As she drinks the sweet amber liquid, she spots a sky blue truck rumbling to a halt down by her mailbox. A petite, dark-haired woman jumps down from the driver’s seat. She is dressed oddly— _ sensibly _ , Carol corrects herself—in dusty boots and a pair of men’s overalls, with a worn, short-sleeved collared shirt beneath.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’ve got a feeling I’m lost,” the woman calls out to Carol. Her voice is clear, not Iowan, but warm and friendly nonetheless 

Instinctively, Carol tugs her blouse a little straighter, emerging from the safety of the porch to walk down the driveway. When she’s close enough to talk to the woman without yelling, she asks with a smile, “Well, are you supposed to be in Iowa?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could the woman be? ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments or over on tumblr @petitegaynerd.


	3. Chapter 3

As she waits for Carol to make it down the driveway, the woman stands by her truck with her hands shoved deep in her pockets.

With a friendly smile, Carol asks, “Are you supposed to be in Iowa?”

“Yes, I am,” the woman says with a touch of reservation, walking up to meet Carol. “I’m Therese Belivet, by the way.”

Up close, the woman is younger than Carol first thought she was, perhaps only in her early- or mid-twenties. She extends a hand over the split-rail fence that separates them and Carol shakes it. Therese Belivet's palm is calloused and warm. Her firm grip sends a tingle running through Carol. Studying the woman’s face, Carol finds green eyes that sparkle under the serious eyebrows that frame them. Therese regards her just the same with their hands still entwined, her eyes flicking over each line and freckle of Carol’s face.

“Well, Therese, you’re in Winterset, Iowa, so you’re not that lost,” Carol says when she finally lets go. “I’m Carol Aird. Where are you meant to be headed?”

“I’m looking for a covered bridge that’s around here… it’s called… um, hold on a minute.” An apologetic smile dimples Therese’s tan cheeks before she jogs back over her truck, hoisting herself up into the passenger seat.

Therese’s arms are lithe but strong, her bicep well-defined as she holds onto the handle above the door. Despite her boxy clothes, Therese’s figure is petite and Carol is hit with the sudden thought of what she might look like under the stiff denim. Have her earlier thoughts of Abby caused an overwhelming, indecent desire to consume her entirely? _It’s impolite to stare,_ she thinks, trying to find somewhere -- anywhere -- to look beside Therese.

Running a hand over her hair, Carol searches her mind for anything she knows about the bridges nearby and -- of course, it should have been obvious, why didn’t she think of it sooner? She asks Therese, “Are you looking for the Roseman Bridge? That’s the closest one.”

“Maybe,” Therese calls absent-mindedly, digging through the papers on her dashboard. She finds a small spiral-bound notebook, flips through her notes, then nods. “That’s the one.”

“Well, you’re pretty close,” Carol says. “It’s only about five miles from here.”

“Great,” Therese says with an appreciative grin. “Which way should I go?”

Gesturing as she describes the path, Carol explains, “You head down the road and take a left past Cutters'. It’s a small farmhouse, close to the road. Pass it and keep going until you come to a fork in the road. Take the right bend of the fork--”

Therese’s quick laugh stops Carol’s train of thought.

“Please slow down, ma’am,” Therese says. “You lost me at Cutler’s.”

“Cutters’,” Carol corrects. She tries to think of a better way to describe the path and comes up short. Stumbling over her words, she says, “Um, you know, I could take you. If you want. Or I could tell you. I can take you or I can tell you. It’s up to you. Either way.”

A truck rushes past them, the honk of a horn preventing Therese from answering. Floyd, one of Carol’s husband’s friends, waves at her through the window. Carol raises a hand in response and smiles a little grimly, knowing that Therese -- and the fact that she stopped by the Airds’ farm -- will be the talk of the town for the rest of the day.

“I think it’d be better if I show you,” Carol says, once the dust that bloomed behind Floyd’s truck has settled.

“I wouldn’t want to take you away from anything,” Therese demurs.

“You’re not,” Carol insists. With a twinkle in her eye, she adds, “I was just about to start writing the next Great American Novel, but I suppose that can wait until after I take you. Let me grab a pair of shoes.”

“Well, if it makes a difference, I promise I’ll be the first to buy your book, Mrs. Aird,” Therese replies, a crooked smile making one of her dimples return. “But that would be wonderful, truly. I am indebted to you.”

Carol waves her words away. “It’s nothing. I’ll just be a moment.”

Therese watches her go, sighing a little wistfully as she eyes Carol’s legs and backside in her denim cutoffs. Shaking her head, Therese begins clearing out the passenger side of her truck. She shuffles together papers and tosses them onto the back seat alongside a brown paper bag stacked with empty beer bottles. Film canisters get tucked into the glove compartment and Therese grabs a rag to wipe down the dash.

Her truck is still messy, but more presentable than it was before, when Carol reemerges from the house, a small purse over her shoulder, her hair now falling in soft waves around her face. Therese holds the passenger door open for Carol, offering a hand to help her step up. Carol takes her hand gladly but holds herself primly once she is seated, not used to the stranger’s truck.

She lets the car door fall gently shut behind her. Therese smiles up at her, big and open, basking in the Iowa sunshine, lingering for a moment with her hand on the door handle, her gaze direct and curious even through the glass of the window. As Therese passes in front of the truck, returning to the driver’s seat, a flutter passes through Carol's chest, suddenly making it easier to breathe again although the truck's warm, stale air hasn't changed.

When Therese starts the ignition, she asks, “So, where are we headed?”

“Down the road, and take the next left.”

Therese’s truck rumbles to life. Although she carefully checks her mirrors, there are no other cars in sight. She pulls out onto the road. Both Therese and Carol are silent until Therese rolls down her window, the crank squeaking a little.

“There’s some pretty country around here,” Therese offers, eyes still on the road ahead.

“Mmm-hmm,” Carol says agreeably. She occupies herself with rolling down her own window, welcoming the sudden breeze that rushes past her, whipping her hair across her face. To her, the countryside has always seemed mundane; it is odd to think that this stranger finds it charming. Surely there are more exciting places to be, especially for a woman like Therese, someone so unlike any other person that Carol has met in Iowa, perhaps different from any other woman Carol has ever known -- except maybe Abby. That comparison, equal parts petrifying and intoxicating, leaves Carol suddenly digging her nails into her sides as she crosses her arms across her chest, fixing her gaze firmly on the rolling grasses through the windshield.

Therese drums her fingers on the steering wheel in the silence, searching for another way to describe her experience to Carol. A little dreamily, Therese says, “There’s a wonderful smell about Iowa -- very particular to this part of the country. Do you know what I mean?”

“No,” Carol answers slowly. “Turn right past that fence post.”

Therese complies. Brightly, she keeps trying to explain. “I can’t describe it. I think it’s from the loam in the soil--it is loamy, isn’t it? This very rich, earthy kind of… alive… No. No, that’s not right. Can you smell it?”

Carol shakes her head, meeting Therese’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Maybe it’s because I live here.”

“That must be it.” Therese nods at her before returning her gaze to the road. “But it’s a great smell, I must tell you.”

Carol shifts in her seat, a smile half-formed on her lips, pleased that Therese cares enough about Iowa to convince her to do the same.

She wonders why exactly Therese is so enamored with her hometown. Therese is bold and open, impossibly so, unafraid to stop at a stranger’s house in the middle of Iowa while dressed in men’s work clothes. Yet there’s a certain air of reservation around her, mixing with the scent of cigarettes and something Carol thinks might be sarsaparilla, from root beer or some kind of perfume that clings to Therese's skin. And there’s ink peeking out from her shirt and Carol wants to reach over, push up her sleeve, trace the design of whatever symbol this woman has found meaningful enough to have it on her skin. Yet she is stuck, frozen in the sudden onslaught of feelings that she has done her best to ignore for the past twenty years, searching for some connection with this peculiar woman.

“So… Miss Belivet, right? Spokane? I saw the sign on the side of your truck--are you from Washington originally?”

“It’s just Therese, ma’am, no need for a ‘miss’ anything, but yes, I am from Washington.” Carol watches Therese’s tongue roll over her teeth as if she is weighing her words before she speaks. More quietly, Therese shares, “I lived there till I was twenty and moved to Chicago when I got married. And then I moved back.”

“Oh.” Carol pauses for a moment. Therese didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would be married -- in fact, she seemed like the kind of woman that folks whispered about never getting married at all. But maybe that was wishful thinking. “When did you move back?”

Therese's smile twists wryly. “After the divorce.”

“Oh.”

“How long have _you_ been married?”

“To Harge? Oh, god, I don’t know exactly. A while.” She pauses sheepishly, unsure of what Therese might think about the fact that she cannot remember her own marriage. She adds, “We’ve got a daughter. A teenager. You’ll want to follow those tire tracks up ahead.”

“Have you always lived in Iowa? You don’t really seem like a native Iowan if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Carol smiles hesitantly. “You’re right--I’m not a native Iowan. I was born in Italy.”

“Italy to Iowa--that’s a story!” Therese lays a hand on the horn, tooting out an uneven, cheerful rhythm as the truck bounces down the dirt road. “Whereabouts in Italy?”

“A small town, called Bari. It’s on the eastern coast -- near the heel of the boot, they say -- but no one’s ever heard of it.”

“Bari, really? I stopped there once.”

“No.”

“Yeah,” Therese says, smiling at Carol’s tone of disbelief.

“Really? In Bari?”

“I had an assignment to do some work in Greece and I had to go through Bari to get the boat at Brindisi. But it looked so pretty I decided to stay for a few days. It’s gorgeous country.” Therese sits up straighter, glancing over at Carol.

Carol meets her gaze with a smile, a smile that grows with Therese’s contagious enthusiasm. She asks, “You just… stayed there because it looked pretty?”

“Yeah, it was really gorgeous. I’d love to go back -- hey, excuse me a sec.” Therese reaches over and taps Carol’s leg, just above her knee, asking her to move aside. Barely keeping her head above the dashboard, Therese fishes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the glove compartment. The car swerves a little into the tall grasses but Therese adjusts, tapping the packs of cigarettes against her thigh and pulling one out one-handed.

“Want one?” she says around the cigarette, offering the open pack to Carol.

“Sure, thanks,” Carol says. She’s not a smoker, but she takes the cigarettes and lighter from Therese’s hands anyway. She lights her own cigarette, then leans over to light Therese’s, bringing up her hand to cup the flame.

Therese inhales and lets her left hand rest easy out the window with the cigarette dangling, right hand steady on the base of the steering wheel. “Bari would be nice someday,” Therese says, eyes on Carol’s sharp profile.

“It would,” Carol agrees. She returns the lighter and cigarettes to the glove box and then settles into her seat, blowing out a stream of smoke and sneaking a glance at Therese as she gives directions towards the Roseman Bridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kindness so far. I have had a slew of projects and exams over the past week, and it's been so nice to see your messages :)
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer chapter this time!

The ride to Roseman Bridge doesn’t take long. Therese has barely finished her cigarette by the time she pulls into the small, grassy park adjacent to the bridge and shuts off the engine. Therese jumps from the driver’s seat, offering Carol a helping hand barely after Carol has reached for the door handle.

“This won’t take long,” Therese tells her. She lifts a sizeable camera case from the bed of her truck. “I’m doing the real shooting tomorrow morning -- I just need to do some prep work today.”

“I don’t mind waiting, really,” Carol says. “My husband is away, so I’m a free woman.”

“That’s a luxury these days,” Therese says with a crooked grin. “I happen to be on the National Geographic’s time just now, so I’d best get to work. I’ll try to keep it brief so I can get you back sometime soon. There’s sodas in the cooler if you want one.”

She strides off towards the bridge, a camera strap over her shoulder and a swagger in her hips, as she heads down among the grasses.  Carol follows at a distance, heading to the bridge itself. She leans on the warm, white wood of the bridge’s railing as she watches Therese work. Therese stands on the bank of the creek that flows beneath the bridge, one foot precariously close to the water as she points her lens back up at the bridge. Her movements are fluid, and her hands are steady as she captures the structure of the bridge and the shadows that fall beneath it, her camera an extension of her being. Every so often she pauses, letting her camera rest on her abdomen, looking up at the bridge and the surroundings until she finds new inspiration. Eventually, her lens focuses on Carol.

“Smile!” Therese calls up to her. “It’s a beautiful day!”

Carol smiles reflexively at Therese’s enthusiasm, but despite their distance, the snap of the shutter is loud enough to make her smile falter. She looks down, fixing her gaze on the pair of initials someone had carved into the wood.

“You’re gorgeous!” Therese shouts cheerfully. “You oughta be a model!”

“Don’t be foolish,” Carol chides, raising her voice so Therese can hear her. “I’m not properly dressed.”

“We all ought to be more foolish. You gotta let loose sometimes! Besides, the birds don’t care how you look, they just want you to be happy.”

“I feel silly, Therese.”

Therese squints up at her. “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.” Dropping the subject, she stands for a moment with her hands planted on her hips, examining the scenery. “Is it always this hot?” she asks Carol.

Carol shrugs. “It’s just this time of year.”

“It’s brutal. Hey, would you do me a favor and go to the truck? There’s a leather bag with pockets, and one side there’s a package of lens cleaners. Would you go grab me one? And get a drink if you want.”

“Yeah, sure,” Carol says. When she reaches the truck, she steps up to dig around in the backseat. There are paper bags of trash and an open duffel bag with tube socks and t-shirts spilling out. A worn pair of Birkenstocks is tossed on top. Behind the duffel bag, Carol spots the leather bag and grabs it, finding a soft cloth in one of the inside pockets.

When she returns to the side of the bridge, Therese is nowhere in sight. Carol walks a little way down the path, but cannot spy the soft green of Therese’s shirt or the faded blue of her overalls. She climbs back up to the bridge, but Therese is not beneath the covering. Finally, Carol spots Therese squatting in the tall grasses on the other side of the bridge.

“There you are,” Carol calls, walking quickly over the bridge. “I was beginning to think I’d lost you. I thought maybe you’d wandered off to Indiana.”

Therese rises, holding a bunch of wildflowers in her hand. “It’s too hot to go that far,” she says. “I was picking you some flowers as a thank you for your help, for making sure I didn’t get lost and for putting up with my foolish ideas.”

“Thank you,” Carol says softly, reaching for the flowers. “They’re…”

“Is it alright that I gave you flowers?” Therese asks quickly. “That’s something women can still do, right? For their friends?”

Carol drops the flowers as if they have burned her. They drift and scatter on the grass in front of her. “Yes, yes, it’s fine,” she says after a moment. Meeting Therese’s eyes, she says, “They’re lovely. Thank you. You’re very gallant, you know.”

“I’m sorry for startling you,” Therese says, scratching the back of her neck. “I wasn’t sure if I was out of date, or something. I just wanted to give you something in exchange for your time.”

“No— not at all,” Carol stammers. “You’re… wonderful. The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.”

She stoops to pick up the scattered flowers, but Therese is kneeling to gather the stems before she can reach them. Therese glances up at her. “You’re an interesting lady, Mrs. Aird.”

“I’m sorry. I must say, I’ve been in a strange mood all day. It feels like the whole world is going nuts and I’m just here, sweeping my porch and taking strangers to see bridges when I really ought to be doing more with my life.” Carol, embarrassed, stops talking. She steps closer to Therese, fingering the fuzzy stalk of Queen Anne’s Lace in Therese’s hands.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, with all the riots and the burning of draft cards and everything changing so quickly… It makes you think about the things you’ve done or haven’t done or… Oh, I don’t know. Never mind.” She takes the bouquet from Therese, leaving the lens cloth in her hand instead. “I’m sorry you caught me all out of sorts. I’ve really had a lovely afternoon.”

Therese reaches out, taking Carol’s hand in hers. “Don’t let the world get to you so much. There are too many problems in this world for one woman to take on, and there’s nothing wrong with taking things one day at a time. For now, I think I’d better get you home.”

The ride back to the Airds’ farm is hastened by the bluesy country that Carol finds when Therese suggests turning on the radio. When she pulls into the Airds’ driveway, Therese turns to Carol. “Well, thank you for all your help, Mrs. Aird. I’ll let you get back to your work here and I guess I’ll be on my way.”

“Call me Carol,” she insists. “It was my pleasure, truly. And thank you for the flowers.”

Therese smiles warmly. “Any day.”

She offers a hand to Carol to shake, and Carol asks, “Would you like to come in for some iced tea?”

Therese lets her hand drop from Carol’s, fidgeting instead with the grip of her steering wheel. “I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense, Therese. It’s the least I can do to offer you some refreshment. You’re right -- the heat is brutal.”

“If you really don’t mind, I’d be ever so grateful, Mrs. — Carol.”

“Please, come on in,” Carol says. She jumps down from the truck and waits for Therese to do the same, leading her into the house.

The kitchen is cooler than the yard, with the lights off and the back door flung open. Therese stands awkwardly in the doorway as Carol gets glasses down from the cabinet and opens the fridge for a pitcher of sun tea. Carol busies herself with the task, although she stills watches Therese from the corner of her eye. Therese looks smaller inside, unbalanced without a camera in her hands or her truck to spread out in.

“Would you like a slice of lemon?” Carol asks.

“Sure,” Therese replies quickly.

Carol cuts up the citrus and places a slice in her own glass and in Therese’s. The glass is already slippery with condensation when she hands it to Therese.

“Thanks,” Therese says, her throat bobbing as she quickly gulps down the tea.

“Would you like another glass?” Carol asks when Therese is barely finished with the first drink.

“Yes, that would be lovely. Do you mind if I smoke in here?”

“Not at all,” she says, taking the glass from Therese’s hand.

Therese settles into one of the kitchen chairs, propping her foot on another as she lights a cigarette. Carol sets her own glass on the table and takes the pitcher from the counter to refill Therese’s glass. Setting the glass in front of her and leaving the pitcher on the table, Carol opens the cabinet beneath the sink to look for a vase. She fills it with water and puts the flowers Therese has gathered in it, then sets the vase beside the pitcher of tea. Finally, Carol sits down in her usual place, smiling at Therese.

Therese gestures at the flowers with the cigarette in her hand. “Glad you like ‘em.”

A moment lingers between them, both with hesitant smiles, waiting for the other to speak first.

Eventually, Carol asks lightly, “Where are you staying while you’re here?”

“A little place with cabins. The something Motor Inn.”

“How long are you here for?”

“As long as it takes to finish the project. I might stay a few days, maybe a week. No more than that.” Therese shrugs, then asks, “You’re married, right? Where’s your family?”

“My husband took my daughter to the Illinois State Fair. My daughter--Rindy--is entering a prize steer there.”

“How old?”

“About a year and a half.”

“Not the cow, I meant your daughter,” Therese laughs.

“Oh.” Carol blushes. “She’s sixteen.”

“Must be nice having kids.”

“She’s not a kid anymore. Things change.”

Therese nods. “Everything does. It’s one of the laws of nature. People are always so afraid of change, but if you look at it like it’s something you can count on, it’s a comfort. There’s not a lot of things you can count on for sure in this life.”

“I suppose I’m one of the people who gets frightened by change.”

“Really? I doubt that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Moving from Italy to Iowa? That’s what I’d call a change.”

By way of an answer, Carol says, “Harge was in the army. I met him while I was living in Naples. I didn’t know exactly where Iowa was. I only cared that it was in America.” As an afterthought, she adds, “And, of course, that it was with Harge.”

Therese flicks away a bit of ash, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. “What’s he like?”

Carol pauses. Harge is a constant in her life. Hard-working, kind enough. Not exceptional. Always good at doing the washing up. “He’s… clean.”

“Clean?”

“No. I mean, yes, he’s clean. He’s also other things. He’s a very hard worker. A little quiet. Very caring. Gentle, as men go. He’s a good father.”

“And clean?” Therese’s tone is only half-joking.

“Yes. Clean.” Carol, feeling like a fool, finishes her iced tea, looking anywhere but at Therese.

There are a few more moments of silence before Therese says, “So you must like it here in Iowa.”

“It’s…” Carol, about to speak, stops herself, although there is something about Therese--her frank manner, her joyous lack of judgment, her eyes?--makes Carol want to speak her truth.

“Go ahead, I promise I won’t tell anyone, whatever it is.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Carol says. “I suppose I ought to say that it’s nice and quiet. Which it is, but it’s also…”  

She glances towards the door as if someone might be listening in. When she looks back at Therese, Therese is looking at her with her head propped on her hand, as though whatever Carol is about to say is the most important thing in the world.

“It’s safe, I suppose,” Carol says slowly. “The neighbors will help you harvest your corn and you can let your kids run around outside without worrying but it’s not exactly what I dreamed of as a girl. Everybody knows everybody's business--I mean it’s nice now and then, they’re always there to help out, but that’s just it, it’s like they’re waiting for something awful to happen to help out and when nothing awful is happening, then they just sit around and talk about what is happening which is none of their business. I want to kill them sometimes for how cruel they can be --”

She takes a ragged breath and Therese is there to keep her steady, gently rubbing her hand with a thumb.

The words start tumbling out faster than Carol can process them, a fierce urgency pushing her forward. Therese’s eyes are inquisitive and sympathetic and in that moment Carol can feel the tightness in her chest easing. “I get so mad sometimes — like how everybody's talking about poor Mrs. Delaney whose husband is having an affair with that Redfield woman and saying ‘isn't it a shame,’ and ‘isn't it awful,’ and the truth is they’re  _ loving  _ it! The poor woman can't even be cheated on without the grocery man knowing about it -- no one respects anyone's privacy. You're not even safe in your own home! They think they can just walk right into your house because they baked you something, like it’s a secret password and you can’t keep them out! I live in fear of that door opening and having a peach cobbler shoved at me and them saying that they know absolutely everything about me and my life, about--”

Carol stops herself just in time, as the next thing that is about to come out of her mouth is Abby, and part of her hopes that Therese wouldn’t care, that Therese would  _ understand,  _ but Carol has no reason to believe this besides a feeling _ ,  _ and a feeling is not enough to expose her most closely held secret in the small town, even — or especially — to a total stranger.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Therese is up and out of her seat, running her hands up and down Carol’s arms. “Just sit still, okay?”

Carol nods silently, holding in a desperate sob, clutching Therese’s hand against her shoulder.

Twisting, Therese looks around for a rag and finds one, then reaches over her own arm to turn on the tap and run the dishcloth under the cool water. She wrings it out one-handed, letting the excess water drip into the sink. Placing the damp cloth over the back of Carol’s neck, Therese pulls a chair close to Carol’s. She smooths the blonde’s hair, pushing it out of her face, and Carol’s breath hitches a moment. 

Therese’s face is creased with concern. “Are you all right?”

Therese’s hands are steady and gentle, and a sense of calm slowly settles over Carol. “I’m fine,” she says softly. “Thank you. You-- the cloth helped.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Therese asks.

Carol nods, more vigorously now. “I feel embarrassed,” Carol murmurs when she can muster the breath.

“Why should you? You uncorked a bottle somewhere inside, and you needed to pop the top.  From what I can tell, I got here just in time.” Softly, Therese says, “You have no reason to feel ashamed. You haven’t said anything you don’t have a right to. And if anybody tells you different -- well, you just send them my way.”

Carol reaches out, squeezing Therese’s hand in thanks. “Therese, would you like to stay for dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been a great outlet in the midst of some busy revision... I have finals this week, but then I'll be off of school for a bit and I'm planning to spend time working on this story and a couple of others! Thank you for reading, and feel free to let me know what you're thinking so far in the comments or over on tumblr.


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